Where I come from
by Malkeet Kuar
Where I come From
There’s no group I belong to,
No caste no sect no race.
And one step short of losing a gender.
But that is not possible.
I have been carrying this bleeding burden for too long,
For past thirty-seven seven years or so.
I have been doing it with such a panache
and the uterus and I are synonymous now.
There’s no country I come from
No known city or town.
I come from within a box of baked bricks I call home.
A box echoing the clashing pans
And as I step out I bump into shoulders all around-
Frozen and stiff
When you return to the place with mauled twigs you call home,
You know you come from a place that could be anywhere.
But it’s neither here nor there
Yet one step short of nowhere
Malkeet Kaur works as a teacher in a public school in Mumbai. She writes verses to express her deepest feelings. Many of her poems are published in online journals and anthologies.
By Michael A Griffith
My hands are dirty from what I have just done
Things happen so fast, before I can think
I am a good person
People tell me that
My mother raised me to be good
But I still get dirty hands
Did my mother
It feels like my hands are gloved in dirt
and they might never be clean again
Michael Griffith began writing poetry as a way to heal his mind and spirit as his body recovered from a life-changing injury. His writing has appeared in online and print outlets such as Teaching For Success, Lehigh Valley Woman’s Journal, Twilight Times, Dual Coast Poetry, Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Indiana Voice Journal, and Ripen the Page. He teaches and resides in central NJ….
after your last words
By Alfred Booth
I rushed back, every corner a finish line
neither instinct, survival, nor love
gave me wings enough
your fifth floor rooms
were empty, save the comforter
sixty-four blue patchwork squares
with orange flowers
under which we slept each night
in the abandon of these last months
did I remember how many days
I wept, curled
in the warmth of our memories
it did not matter
I did not run to the lake
where I carefully folded my clothes on the dock
hoping this hunger had weaken my body
I could not sink, following my heart
on a southbound train
By Alfred Booth
& too soon things we write resemble poetic trees sprouting deep roots into a new ever-changeable society say #hallelujah say grace my friends
(over one-forty limit delete?/save?)
yeah you too Sam heres the daily #riddle where goes the flow of her orange flowered gown? down the twin river confluent in Lyon drowned in sunlight filtered by white noise of smog-misted clouds spoiling the mornings #eclipse its happening the same day as spring #solstice
you pagan dont u mean #equinox?
dont shoot the pianist Sam OK? Websters says two words one and same
Alfred Booth is an American professional pianist who lives in France, Alfred Booth folds origami; its patience often inspires poetry. When he not at the piano learning new arcane repertoire to stretch his horizons, he teaches would-be amateur musicians to put enough bread on the table. In the 90s he studied extensively the harpsichord and his millennial project had him able to play Bach on the cello; this latter duo waits for his retirement years. Currently he has an 82-poem volume journaling a recent dance with cancer and an 34-poem chapbook of ghazals looking for a homes in the professional world of rhyme. A large handful of his poetry can be found in the e-zines Dead Snakes, I am not a silent poet and Spring Fling. He keeps an online portfolio at: https://www.writing.com/main/portfolio/view/troubadou
By Daginne Aignend
I’m not a devout person
False justification, in the name of religion,
is commonplace nowadays
Problem is that the so-called ‘true’ religious
always think that their own religion
is the ‘truth’
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not
against one’s belief, it can be
a guidance in life
To stay and walk on the straight and narrow
Personally, I like to believe in the goodness
of people though human behavior
often has disappointed me
You won’t find me in a church
or some other sanctuary
I must admit, I admire the artistry
of some of the relics
But to kneel down in prayer would
be an act of hypocrisy
Although, since I know you are
seriously ill my beloved friend,
I almost tempted to invoke
to some God and pray for your healing
Daginne Aignend is a pseudonym for the Dutch poetess and photographic artist Inge Wesdijk. She likes hard rock music and fantasy books. She is a vegetarian and spends a lot of time with her animals. Daginne posted some of her poems on her Facebook page and on her fun project website www.daginne.com, she’s also the co-editor of Degenerate Literature, a poetry, flash fiction, and arts E-zine
She has been published in several Poetry Review Magazines, in the bilingual anthology (English/Farsi), ‘Where Are You From?’ and in the Contemporary Poet’s Group anthology ‘Dandelion in a Vase of Roses’